


The mad man with closed eyes

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9x23 coda. Sam deals with the events in the finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The mad man with closed eyes

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:**  
>  For all aired episodes, up to and including 9x23.  
>  **Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters and mythology elements belong to their creators.
> 
> **Author's Note #1:** A huge thank you to the wonderful _borgmama1of5_. Not only for the beta, but for all her help and advice - for her endless patience. If this fic makes sense, and is anything remotely readable - I owe it all to her. 
> 
> **Author's Note #2:** Title, a translation of Transsylvania Phoenix's song title _, Nebunul cu ochii închiși._

 

Death.

That’s all he has. The final, inescapable truth. Dean dying in his arms.

Again and again.

Every time, Sam cries.

He closes his eyes. He waits for _Heat of the moment_ to start.

It doesn’t.

***

  
Sam gathers Dean in his arms – _I’m not a fucking princess, Sammy –_ and carries him to the car. Sam arranges him in the backseat, tucks a blanket over him – _he’s just sleeping, he’s not dead, not again, why –_ Dean’s heart – the driving force of the universe, it always seemed – it’s broken, it doesn’t tick, and Sam presses his palm to Dean’s chest, fingers spreading, ignoring the blood, willing it to beat.

It doesn’t, and it takes Sam’s heart away with it.

 

***

Pale skin, white, blue lips.  _I’m still the handsome one, bitch._ Dean’s shirt, torn apart where the blade went in.

So much blood.

So still. Silence.

Screams, scratching at walls rebuilt.

Everything gone.

There’s no Dean.

  


***  


Dark.

Reality, shaped only by memories.

Hellhounds ripping into Dean. _Then what am I supposed to do?_ The angel blade, sinking into Dean’s chest – his eyes, so lost, so pained, so many thoughts that won’t ever be words, won’t ever spill past Dean’s lips. _Take care of my wheels._

Dean, always great at a goodbye speech.

Words that haunt Sam, that crush him bit by bit.

He does remember what Dean taught him.

The whiskey burns going down. The glass is empty. But he feels everything.

Part of Sam died with Dean – and problem is, Sam doesn’t have any spare pieces to give, it’s all hanging by a thread as it is – _come on, Sammy, breathe –_ and Sam’s stuck, he’s stuck between numb and shattering in fragments, in parts of himself he carved only to be burned, to be melted and sculpted into another hell, another nightmare, another fucked-up dream.

 

***

Sam lied.

He lied so it would hurt – because Dean didn’t trust him, because he doesn’t believe in Sam, didn’t think he would live for Dean.

And that’s the thing.

He chose Dean. He chose him, time and time again. To die, to live. But there was no one there to see. _I don’t want ten years. I don’t want one year. I don’t want candy. I want to trade places with Dean._ There was nobody there to believe. He threw himself into the pit. Because it was the only play left, only way to restore Dean’s faith in him.

He chooses Dean in his own broken ways – because Sam Winchester, guy who beat the Devil, guy who stopped the Apocalypse – he fell apart. He hit a dog. He ran. He couldn’t deal with it. He was weak.

Guilt. The Winchester brand, the one that seeps into the skin, that’s ingrained – who Sam is. Who he hates that he can’t be. His failures. His botched attempts to do the right thing.

Anger. Default, without Dean.

He didn’t lie.

Sam thought he wouldn’t have done the same thing. Sam thought that he could live.

_Ain’t that a bitch._

  


***

Crowley smiles at him.

Sam talks, he yells, he demands, he tries everything – Crowley just listens, tilts his lips into a smug grin.

Sam charges, it’s Ruby’s knife in his hands – but a hand stops him, and it takes a few seconds to process, to understand – he knows Dean’s touch instantly, it’s burned, etched into his skin.

It can’t be. It just can’t – it’s relief – it’s everything he thought he wouldn’t get another chance to feel – happy, a moment, brief, indistinct, until –

Until he’s thrown into the shelves, until his back hits the metal with enough force to punch the next breath out of him – and _Dean_ , God, Dean’s just standing there, looking at him – green eyes blank, without any recognition, without any warmth in it – like Sam isn’t his brother, like Dean hasn’t spent all his life protecting him.

Sam falls, crumbles to the floor – tries to get up – to get to his brother, to touch, to shake Dean – and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand – can’t make sense of what’s right in front of him. He wants to scream – _how, why, Dean_ – he wants to whisper – _it’s okay, I’m here, tell me how to fix this –_ but he can’t do either, he’s pinned, numb, there’s no words to use that would mean anything.

It was Dean, a flick of his wrist – and the next moment, it all comes crashing down, Sam’s world tilts, collapses, and he’s trapped, he’s in Hell, he can’t fucking breathe – green shifting into a nightmare – what _he –_ the monster, the freak – was supposed to be. Not Dean, never Dean – Sam’s the one who’s tainted – he’s the one who should rot for this.  

Black. Darkness. Dean’s eyes.

Demon.

No.

Sam refuses to believe – stubborn even if it kills him – because if it is, if Dean’s a monster, if Dean turned into everything they hunted, into everything he hated and killed – there’s no coming back from this.

Not for Dean.

Not for the hero.

Not for all the good he did.

Sam can’t move.

They leave.

They leave Sam, dazed, confused – _I knew you loved Zeppelin, kid –_ knife still in his hand, gripped tight, useless, because _this, this_ he doesn’t know how to fight, doesn’t know where to begin – how can he? Stone number one is ash, smoke, hellfire distilled – not like the other times – when there was still an ideal, still a wish.

The voices mingle – _Dean –_ his mind – nothing, he has nothing – not a plan, not hope, nowhere to start, not faith, not belief – and he just stops – thinking, breathing, _existing,_ or so it feels – stares at the open door, stares until he doesn’t see anything, not anymore, when he can convince himself it’s another nightmare, another piece clawing its way to the surface, another thing Hell built just to mess with him.

He stares, he doesn’t move, he’s utterly still.

Time crawls, silence fills, rattles, until there’s nothing left, just _it,_ empty and hollow, existence in between seconds – _Sammy and Dean,_ a distant memory.

 

***

“I am sorry for this.”

Sam had managed to crawl, to bring himself to the table, to down another bottle of Jack – forget, forget what he saw, what he can’t deal with, what he helped build.

Castiel doesn’t understand human emotion, not really, not fully, never easily – and Sam wouldn’t expect him to when it hurts too much to be real, to be solid – to exist. Anger is too tempting, blame, mistakes out of good intentions – too little, too late.

Sam stands up, sways a bit,  fists his hands in Castiel’s coat, shaking him – Sam doesn’t remember when he crossed the distance to the angel, isn’t aware what his mouth is spewing without him, even without the drink, there wouldn’t be logic, not to this fucked-up life he calls his.

“You fucking bastard – you don’t get to be sorry – you don’t get to say that – not after everything he’s done, not everything he’s given up for you – for me – Cas, _please_ – _“_

_Please tell me – tell me how do I do this._

Sam’s voice cracks, shatters in sounds foreign to him – and Castiel’s eyes have only pity for the abomination, because, once again, he’s lost – he didn’t save Dean.

“Bring him back.”

A plea, useless, weak. Like him.

“I cannot –“

Rage, blinding, hot fury, liquid fire cursing through his veins.

“You fucking asshole, you did – you always did – and now – _now_ you can’t? For Dean? I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care if it rips you apart, if you rot in a ditch afterwards – you bring him back. ”

Castiel holds Sam’s gaze, expression unchanged, but for a moment Sam sees Castiel frozen in the same anguish – same pain, with no end to it.

“Sam, I can’t –“

Sam glares, and somewhere, in his mind, knows – knows Castiel can’t do anything, can’t fix what Dean is, but Sam’s drunk enough not to care, must cling to something, something real besides what’s inside him. Dean’s just dead – he has to be – and Sam wants to laugh, because how is that the better outcome, the hope, the wish, the best it could be. He doesn’t. He presses harder, demands, takes without thought, without reason – it’s just too many time he’s lived this.

“Listen to me, Sam – I’m not strong enough. Truthfully, I don’t think it would matter, even if I were.”

Castiel’s patient tone, level, without inflection flicks the switch, and Sam slumps, lets go, slides to the floor – his knees are too weak – maybe it’s all death, he’s the one that shouldn’t live – it’s all catching up to him, hundreds, thousands of days without Dean.

Castiel brings a hand to his shoulder, attempting comfort – but it doesn’t matter, Sam has failed Dean.

“I am not strong enough to save him, to return him to what he should be – but I know someone who may be.”

Castiel speaks, and Sam breathes, fast-paced cadence that gnaws at him, hope, but he doesn’t dare believe. He raises his eyes to meet the bluest ones he’d ever seen – and Castiel already knows the question – _who? –_ because he answers.

_“You.”_

Sam laughs for a long time.

An ugly sound, chewing the last shreds of hope, his insides, his heart with it.

“It all depends on what you’re willing to do for Dean.”

It’s honesty. He hangs on to it. Sam already knows the answer – _anything._

 


End file.
